


Can't Hurry Love

by JamOnToast



Series: Criminal Minds Soulmate AUs [3]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/F, F/M, M/M, Other, References to Canon, Soulmates, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:15:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 9,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29882379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JamOnToast/pseuds/JamOnToast
Summary: 13 stand alone fics with 13 different soulmate aus.
Relationships: Aaron Hotchner/Reader, David Rossi/Reader, Derek Morgan/Reader, Emily Prentiss/Reader, Jennifer "JJ" Jareau/Reader, Luke Alvez/Reader, Matt Simmons (Criminal Minds)/Reader, Penelope Garcia/Reader, Spencer Reid/Reader, Tara Lewis/Reader
Series: Criminal Minds Soulmate AUs [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2197065
Comments: 2
Kudos: 50





	1. Spencer/Reader, a sentence they speak appears on your skin.

**Author's Note:**

> also posted throughout december 2020 on my tumblr (pumpkin-stars)

When your roommate dragged you across campus that morning, you hadn’t expected to find him there. They were taking their major in criminal psychology, had known that from the start of their degree, had their eye on a position in the FBI as soon as they knew what the FBI meant. They’d come to Stayer University, Fredericksburg, Virginia, purely to be close to Quantico. You’d come because it was the closest to your parents, your major still undecided even when graduation was looming.

You’d always wanted to meet your soulmate, had been fascinated by some of the sentences that appeared on your arm at 8pm each day - something they had said, a completely random sentence, shifting into focus, teaching you more and more about them every day… Including the fact that whoever they were, they had rather unique handwriting, and seemed to have swallowed an encyclopedia, as, almost every day, you received a new - completely random - fact.

You’d never known, nor really wanted to know, that birthday candles had originally been used to protect the celebrant from evil spirits for the coming year, or that peas contained chemicals that were also released when in love. Not until your soulmate had said it one day, the facts somehow coming up in his day to day conversations.

You weren’t sure what he got from you in return.

Maybe your coffee order? A random sentence you’d laughed out after your friend told a bad joke? Certainly nothing as interesting as what he gave to you.

But, as you sat beside your roommate in the lecture hall, watching two FBI agents attempt to convince the room to apply after graduation, your soulmate was the last thing on your mind.

The younger agent, Dr Reid, you recalled, was the last thing you would expect when you thought of  _ Badass Special Agent who chases Serial Killers _ , but there he was, long hair, skinny frame, and limbs that flailed about with every word he spoke… His awkward, unsure demeanour only disappearing when he spoke of the wonders of profiling, a natural teacher even if he seemed an unnatural agent.

Your friend elbowed you “He’s cute.”

“What?” You turned to them.

“The older one, Rossi, I’d let him blow my back out any day.”

“He’s old enough to be your grandfather.” You frowned, “I prefer the other one.”

“Reid?” They scoffed.

“I like the awkward librarian chic.” You shrugged, “It suits him.”

They rolled their eyes, prompting you both to turn back to the lecture.

“Which reminds me, I have a joke.” Reid smiled to himself, “How many existentialists does it take to change a lightbulb?” He asked the crowd. There was no response, but he wasn’t deterred, “Two. One to change the lightbulb and one to observe how the lightbulb symbolizes an incandescent beacon of subjectivity in a netherworld of Cosmic Nothingness.” He laughed.

Your lip quirked up, not fully getting it, not sure you’d find it funny even if you did, but you were still endeared by his own amusement. And he had the cutest little smile.

The lecture ended soon afterwards, and you probably would’ve put it from your mind if your roommate hadn’t kept gushing about it for the rest of the day. They’d gone up to Rossi at the end of the talk and asked several questions, earning a smile and a copy of his business card, and a promise to keep an eye out for their application in the next couple of years. You’d hung back, watching as nobody approached the younger profiler, but smiled shyly at him when his gaze caught yours, earning a matching awkward smile in return.

8pm rolled around eventually, and you both sat on your bed, the nightly ritual of watching your forearms putting a pause on the assignment you should’ve been working on.

“Ugh.” Your roommate rolled their eyes, “Just his coffee order again.”

You grinned, “At least it wasn’t him having sex this time.”

“What’s yours?” They wondered, grimacing at the thought - they’d had to walk around with  _ oh yeah baby take my cock _ for 24 hours the day of a very important interview. Your nerdy soulmate thankfully had never left anything like that for you.

Your eyes widened as you looked at your arm, “You got that business card handy?”

“What, why?”

There, in wonky letters, was Dr Spencer Reid’s lightbulb joke, just sitting right there.

“Oh my god!” Your roommate gasped, “Can you convince him to give me a job?”

You laughed, “I think I’d better get to know him first. Besides, it might not be him.”

“Are you kidding? Who else would be weird enough to tell that joke!?”

“He’s not weird!” You snapped. “He’s cute.”

“So you said.” They grinned, passing you Rossi’s business card.

You dialled the number.

“Rossi.” The Italian answered.

“Hi, um, Agent. I uh, I was at your lecture today.” You frowned, “Is… Is Doctor Reid with you?”

“Why’d you ask?”

“The joke he told. The… existentialist lightbulb thing? It’s… It’s on my arm.”

The line was silent for a moment, then Rossi’s laughter could be heard before Reid’s voice came down the line. “Hello?”

“Hi.” You smiled, “I uh, I think you might be my soulmate.”

“Oh uh… I’m glad you, glad you like my awkward librarian chic, then.” He stuttered.

You flushed, “I’m so sorry you got that! I said so many good things today and then that… I-”

“It’s okay.” He assured you, “I’m just… I’m happy to meet you, or, speak to you, I guess. We’ve actually got a case right now but, can I call you, afterwards?”

“On this number.” You confirmed, a smile growing into a grin. “And Spencer?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m happy to meet you too.”


	2. Luke/Reader, your chest gets hot/cold depending on the proximity.

You felt awful.

You’d put it down to first day nerves but honestly, ever since you’d moved to DC you’d been feeling really bad. It was probably just your body getting used to its new surroundings, new germs and people mixing with your own.

But walking into the FBI ready to start working was a concept that would only exist in your mind. It was January, literally the middle of winter, and you were so warm you could’ve gone and laid in the snow in your underwear and still been too hot.

So, you settled for walking into the FBI in a loose shirt and baggy (but still smart) pants, the warmth in your chest protecting you from the snow outside. You were ready to work, so long as you could make use of whatever breakroom was available - you fully intended to stand in front of the open fridge for at least twenty minutes after you’d got settled at your new desk.

It was your first day at the BAU, you’d been transferred in without having met any of the team, filling a space they hadn’t realised needed filling for some time - apparently one of the agents had been relegated to desk duty after a case-gone-wrong, and they needed someone else in the field until (and even after) he was back on active status.

As you walked off the elevator and towards the bullpen on the sixth floor, you just kept on getting hotter. You were sure your whole body was showing it at this point, and wished to every deity out there that you hadn’t downed a large coffee before getting to work, your heart beating out of your chest with every nervous step you took.

As you entered the bullpen, crossing it to reach the Unit Chief’s office, there was a sharp flash of heat, even worse than the constant warmth you had felt for the last week, before your temperature calmed a little more, giving you something of a reprieve as you knocked.

Emily Prentiss was your new boss, and she was every bit as stern as she was welcoming. Your introduction had been cut short at the arrival of a new case - a baptism by fire, it seemed, not least because of your rising temperature.

She noticed, of course, as a profiler, but she said nothing, wanting to see if her suspicions were correct before she voiced them (though you noticed her sharing a smirk with Agent Rossi on the way to the briefing room.

~~~

“Is it hot in here or is it just me?” Luke complained to Matt as they waited for the rest of the team to arrive.

“It’s you.” Matt smiled at the younger agent as he sat in a thin t-shirt, a stark contrast to the jumpers sported by everyone else. “You’ll go back to normal soon, I’m sure.”

JJ grinned, “By this afternoon, I bet.”

“I’d better,” He huffed, “I couldn’t even go for a run with Roxy this morning cause I was too hot just getting out of bed. I should’ve called in sick or something.”

Rossi laughed as he entered, “Then you’d miss out on our newest agent, and you’d still be far too hot.”

“What?” He frowned, watching as Emily led you into the room, feeling another wave of heat.

Emily introduced you easily, “Everyone, this is Agent Y/N Y/L/N, they’ve transferred in from the Seattle office. Arrived last week, and has felt heat in her chest ever since.”

“You’re kidding.” Luke stared at you, “Have we caught the same cold?”

“Must have.” You nodded, taking the seat nearest to him, it being the only one available, “I hope we aren’t infectious, this heat is awful.”

You were both oblivious to the rest of the team’s smiles.

~~~

The case was in Texas, and the team was on their way. Luke was the agent on desk duty, and so he remained behind with Garcia, both jokingly (you hoped) complaining about the circumstances. You were tempted to stay behind too, not wanting to spread whatever you’d caught across state lines, but Emily had insisted you go with them. Something you were kinda relieved about, as, the further the jet flew, the less hot you felt. 

Luke was similarly relieved, and by the time you’d landed, you were both back to a more normal temperature for the time of year, both feeling the cold creeping into your bones.

It was on the way back, when you slowly started to grow hotter and hotter than the penny finally dropped, cup of coffee halfway to your mouth (then suddenly smashed on the floor of the jet).

“Holy shit, he’s my soulmate!”


	3. Emily/Reader, you share injuries with your soulmate.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> season six spoilers. canonical 'death'.

You’d never met your soulmate, though you were pretty sure they were much more of a badass than you were. Even from childhood, you’d experience bruises and scraped knees that stung but weren’t caused by anything you’d done. They were more adventurous, and as you got older the occasional burning pain from gunshot wounds showed you that they didn’t really enjoy the quiet life - or at least, they worked somewhere where quiet was limited (and you hoped, treasured)

Soulmates were meant to be perfect for each other, which told you that whoever yours was, they would like nothing more than to lie in bed on a weekend, a cat (or two) for company, watching tv or reading books lazily. Or, judging by the number of hangovers you ended up with, they’d be too exhausted to leave the bed for a large portion of that weekend even if they wanted to.

There were numerous websites for finding soulmates, break a leg and enter in some information about when you did it, hope that your counterpart would search up the injury, find out which  _ idiot _ had caused them to collapse in pain in the middle of their day. Everyone knew about them, there were ones specific to certain professions - law enforcement, the military, anything that could explain the well-healed gunshot wounds you’d received over the last five years… They weren’t military though, you were sure - those guys didn’t have much time to post updates on their injury profiles when they were in the middle of a warzone. But law enforcement seemed right. Dangerous but not too dangerous to be constantly life-threatening.

There was also a site that documented all hospital-deaths across the globe. Or at least, all un-bonded soulmates’ deaths. The only way an unbonded soulmate could stop feeling their match’s pain was if they died. They’d have the pain of the injuries, the scars the body was left with, never any of the blood thankfully - but if the soulmate died, the pain would just… stop... 

Suddenly.

With no warning.

You’d never used one of those sites before, never been particularly interested in finding them - fate would make you meet eventually, there was no rush to find them…

But now…

With your heart breaking in your chest and the searing pain in your stomach that suddenly just  _ stopped _ …

You had to find them. At least to know who they were, to be able to mourn the future that never was.

You log into the database, search “severe abdominal wound,” “concussion,” “trauma.” And hope for the best.

Thirty results worldwide in the last five minutes. You check their professions - only two work law enforcement. It’s when you read her name for the first time that you know it’s her.

Emily Prentiss, FBI.

~~~

It’s a few days later, you’ve scrambled and managed to get to DC in time for her funeral, but now you’re here you don’t know what to do. You stand to the side, watching all those stern and sad faces - her friends and family… People who knew her, who could tell you everything you want to know, things she should’ve told you instead.

You haven’t felt anything since that pain stopped. Numb to everything. But now you can feel your heart breaking all over again.

“Excuse me?” A blonde woman catches your attention. “Did you know Emily?”

You shake your head, “No. But I should have.”

Her kind smile drops as she looks at you, “Oh my goodness-“ her eyes tear up behind her glasses, “Oh sweetie I’m so sorry. I… I can’t tell you about her, if you’d like?”

You manage a small smile, “That would be nice.”

~~~

Two weeks later, when you’re sitting on Penelope’s couch, Emily’s cat Sergio curled in your lap, your eyes shoot to your foot. It’s throbbing, like you’ve stubbed your toe… but you haven’t moved for at least an hour so there’s no way that pain has come from you…

But that means that Emily-

She can’t be…

Can she?


	4. Hotch/Reader, you have the first name of your soulmate on your forearm.

“Agent Hotchner.” You greeted the Unit Chief's as he strode towards you, the officers in your precinct instinctively moving out the way of the imposing frame of the FBI Agent, his team following behind.

“Detective Y/L/N?” He guessed, shaking your hand.

“That’s me. Thanks again for coming out to help.” You smiled, “You can set up back there, I took the liberty of setting up the crime scene photos on a board for you - and I hung a map of the city up too.”

“Thank you.” Hotchner nodded.

“I also called the victims’ families, Kelly’s parents are on their way here, and Isabel’s fiance is expecting someone to head over. My officers and I are completely at your disposal.”

He nodded again, signalling to his team, they broke off suddenly, some leaving the station immediately, others following him into the room you’d set up for them. You followed silently, watching the agents as they got their bearings, falling into a well-practised rhythm, taking up their individual roles.

“Can I grab you guys a coffee or anything? Our machine is bust but there’s a good place just down the street.” You offer easily, just grateful to have any help on this difficult case.

“Yes!” The youngest of the Agents jumps at the offer of caffeine, and you spend the next few minutes noting down everyone’s order before sending one of the lower ranking officers to the shop with a pocket full of bills and instructions to grab something sweet for himself.

You then join Hotch and the other two agents - Reid and Blake - in the station’s briefing room, watching them work silently until one of them comes up with a theory to discuss or needs to ask you about either victim.

~~~

You and Hotch (as he’d insisted you call him) spent most of the next week side by side, bonding and forming something of a friendship despite the murders going on - your unsub had been devolving, escalating their kills, and since the BAU had arrived the body count had risen from two to five. Agent Hotchner and Detective Y/L/N made quite the crime fighting pair.

You’d caught the guy eventually, late enough in the day that they wouldn’t be able to fly out until the next morning, but early enough that the coffee shop was still serving for a little longer. The BAU headed there before you, but offered you and your team the chance to unwind with them before they went back to their hotel for the night.

It was about twenty minutes after they left that you finally made your way down the street, grinning at the tired student at the counter, who greeted you with a cheerful, if exhausted, hello. There was mischief in their eyes, but you weren’t sure why, and ordered your usual (which was already halfway prepared as soon as you’d stepped through the door). They grinned, thanking you for the generous tip, and said they’d call you over once it was ready. You thanked them and headed over to where the BAU were chilled out in a booth, making some room for you beside the unit chief.

There were a few other customers, so when “Order for Aaron!” was called, you stayed put, though your eyes flew to the counter to see who went to collect.

_ Aaron _ had graced your forearm since you were born, the letters in his handwriting - sort of neat, but written hurriedly, clearly a busy kind of guy. It was common knowledge in this part of town, and that barista had obviously realised that you might be about to have your moment.

Agent Hotchner coughed lightly, “Can I get passed, Detective?” He asked.

“What?” You stared, wide eyed.

“Order for Y/N!”

The call had you looking over, and you noticed Hotch’s gaze fly to the counter too. You stood to head over there, heart beating wildly as you grabbed your cup, feeling Hotch at your back the whole way there.

Both cups had some art on top. Hearts.

The barista grinned, “Enjoy, lovebirds.”

You bit your lip, “So… Aaron.”

“Yeah.” He nodded, leaving his mug on the counter for a moment to roll up his sleeve, displaying the name he carried there. “Hi, Y/N.”


	5. JJ/Reader, you share dreams (and nightmares) with your soulmate.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> angsty :(

Thankfully, her nightmares tend to happen most when they’re not away on cases. It means that you’re there to comfort her, hold her to your chest as she clutches at you, looking for some confirmation that you’re most definitely alive and okay.

Now, however, the nightmares seem to happen more often. You’re separated by secrets, oceans, a whole continent between you, timezones and grainy video calls once a month putting strain on your bond. You don’t sleep at the same time that much, sharing your dreams is more difficult this way. But the times you do share in your sleep are marred by images of sand and yelling and death. They wake you every time, and you know that out there, JJ is on her own, seeing those things in real time, experiencing the things that plague your sleep day after day.

You change your schedule, working weird hours in an attempt to sync up with her more. You try to reach out to her in her dreams, speak to her, let her know it’s okay… it works sometimes. But soon you realise that she’s sleeping only a couple hours a night. She’s burning herself out all for the sake of some mission that by rights you shouldn’t know anything about. If her old team - her family - ask you anything, as far as you’re concerned she’s just spending late nights up at the Pentagon, super busy with classified files… but she’s over there, on her own… struggling, and you can’t help her.

Soulmates are supposed to be there for each other, help each other through the hardest things, smile at each other through the good and the bad… and she’s out there with the worst, and you’re… not.

You can’t wait for her to come home.

~~~

It’s been months. Far too long without her at your side…

Your schedules don’t line up suddenly. Without warning, you’re left alone in your dreams and if not for that light buzzing in the back of your mind you might think the worst. She’s alive. But you doubt she’s okay.

Three days pass and you’re not sure she’s slept at all. If she has, it’s been dreamless.

The next time you do share a dream, you’re forced to wake within minutes - it’s a nightmare, again, but this time you’re sure she’s reliving something… something from those three days…

You need her to come home.

~~~

Your reunion is bittersweet. You’re both exhausted, but so happy to see each other again that you can put aside your tiredness to kiss each other everywhere you can reach.

You fall into bed within an hour of her coming through the door, kisses, a shower, warm pyjamas, and a little snack. The four essentials. It’s almost like she’s returned from a normal case.

She’s home.

Physically.

But mentally, she’s still out there… she’s still fucking traumatised by what happened… and her dreams are so messy that even her soulmate can’t work out what’s going on. What happened…

You wake just seconds before her, and for the first time in far too long you can take her into your arms, both of you shaking, but she holds tight, sobs into your chest, and basks in the reassurances and love that she’s been denied all this time.

She’ll tell you what her dreams mean eventually. But for now, despite the nightmares, it’s just nice to have her here.


	6. Rossi/Reader. if you listen to a song it gets stuck in your soulmate’s head.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is pure crack

Morgan, Prentiss, and Hotch shared amused smiles as they sat round the table on the jet, Rossi in the fourth seat, oblivious. The three agents had had their fair share of embarrassing moments because of their soulmate bonds, but this one was on a whole other level.

They were returning from their latest case, only a few hours out of DC by air (though they’d crossed time zones), and it was still midmorning. That hadn’t stopped the Italian from dozing off shortly after takeoff, only lightly sleeping, but unaware of his surroundings as he focused on the inside of his eyelids rather than the poker game the rest of the team was playing around him. JJ perched on the small cabinet beside the table, also smiling at Rossi’s sleeping form, her elevated position allowing her to glimpse one or two of Emily’s cards, though she’d never admit it. Reid, like Dave, was also not playing, having been banned from jet poker after the last game had resulted in Morgan attempting to flip the jet’s table despite it being bolted to the floor. The young genius was sprawled on the sofa, a book laying open and forgotten on his chest as he also caught up on some much needed sleep. 

Rossi’s sleeping habits were far more regular than Reid’s, and his jet-based activities usually involved drinking scotch or gripping his seat’s armrest tightly at the first sign of any turbulence, only sleeping on the much longer cross-country flights when the rest of the team was also asleep. Hotch had been told, rather grumpily, that  _ whoever my damn soulmate is thinks it’s funny to keep me up at all hours these days _ . He hadn’t had the heart to tell Dave that the louder the music in his head, the closer he was to meeting them. It was certainly long-past overdue for the ageing Italian to finally meet whoever was meant to be his match, and Aaron could only hope that he would meet you soon, if only to spare himself of his friend’s bad mood. Having someone else’s music stuck in your head no matter the time of day wasn’t ideal, but soulmates had no choice - if one was listening to a song, the other had it in their head. There was no avoiding it, at least not until they met, and whatever music was heard would only get louder and louder until that point. Once soulmates had met, they could choose whether to turn off each other’s music or not, and Rossi was itching to meet you, if only to get some sleep that wasn’t plagued with  _ that one damn song _ .

Nobody on the team was entirely sure which song he meant, but Hotch could tell whenever you started listening to it just by seeing the way Dave’s eyes would roll back into his head (though he would never admit that his foot would start tapping soon afterward too). You had been keeping Rossi awake due to your differing time zones throughout the last week, and Hotch had to hope that, come landing, you would both be living with the same day/night schedule and your early morning routine would sync up with his properly, rather than waking an already-cranky agent an hour before he needed (or wanted) to be.

According to Rossi you were an early riser, which had, on days with cases, proven beneficial to him, as the link between you both meant he got an early wake up call about the time of his usual alarm - your choice in music, though not exactly to his taste, and your propensity to blast it loudly for an hour each day before doing whatever it is you do, never failed to wake him up. Unfortunately, whenever he was away on a case, that usually meant he wouldn’t sleep well - unless he could stay within EST. Cases on the west coast were usually awful for him, and his caffeine consumption rose exponentially whenever he was out there, rivalling only Reid’s. Thankfully, the team mainly put his moods down to whatever unsub they were hunting, and, of course, his aversion to any climate warmer (or colder) than DC.

At that moment, though, while the team held back their giggles (excluding Hotch, who was just about managing to hide his smirk), Aaron was glad that you were awake and listening to, what he assumed was,  _ that one damn song _ … Rossi, blissfully unaware of Morgan’s phone in his face, recording something which would inevitably be sent directly to Garcia and used as blackmail for the rest of the Italian’s life, was mumbling to himself in his sleep.

“Gobble me, swallow me, drip down the side of me. Quick, jump out 'fore you let it get inside of me.”

Emily laughed loudly at that. Too loudly.

Rossi woke with a grunt, not knowing what was happening, his leg jerking out, catching Morgan in the shin and causing him to drop his phone, still recording.

“What happened?” Dave wondered, eyes narrowed, taking in his team’s amusement.

“You talk in your sleep.” Hotch explained.

“What?”

JJ smiled, “Your soulmate has… an interesting music taste.”

He blinked, then groaned, hearing  _ that one damn song _ again! “I better meet them soon.”


	7. Spencer/Reader, you have a tattoo of your soulmate’s first impression.

Spencer’s tattoo had always been a point of contention. He was never sure if the words would be thought with derision or humour or - the least likely - arousal. As he grew older, grew more and more gangly and awkward, less  _ normal _ (not that he ever was to begin with), he felt sorry for his soulmate. They would be stuck with him.

Now, years on, confidence built up but still insecure in various aspects of himself, he was startled to feel the familiar mark on his forearm burning. He was thirty nine years old, had all but given up hope of finding his soulmate, the statistics he’d memorised as a child filling his head every time he caught a glimpse of the ink - 85% of soulmates met before the age of forty - there was still comfort that he hadn’t crossed that point yet, but the likelihood of him meeting His Person in the next 314 days went down with every second... 

Until now.

They were getting a new agent - Y/L/N - a new media liaison after so many years, with Garcia gone and Emily less inclined than Hotch had been to field so many calls (even with JJ offering to help), they’d opted to hire someone new. Garcia’s replacement, Agent Thomas Landman, was great with tech - he had to be for such a demanding job (and they should probably stop thinking of him as Garcia’s replacement, but when she’d been there for so many years, it was difficult), but he wasn’t media friendly. He was the stereotypical hacker nerd, more comfortable talking to his computers than other people - though he’d meshed with the team easily.

But Spencer hated change, the team he had grown with, bonded with, had altered a lot over the last few years, and now there was somebody new.

Again.

And his arm was burning.

“Spence!” Emily called to him across the bullpen, waving him over to join her and, he assumed, Agent Y/L/N.

He stared at you in surprise for a moment before heading over. You were more attractive than he’d imagined, had kind eyes, seemed professional but still nervous. His tongue poked out and brushed his bottom lip as he neared you, determining that you were absolutely beautiful before he stopped at Emily’s side. He watched silently as your pupils dilated, eyes looking him up and down, surprised to find the words on his arm whispered aloud.

“Oh, fuck me.”

He swallowed hard.

“Spence, this is Y/N. Y/N, Spencer.”

“It’s nice to meet you.” You smiled, offering your hand.

He blinked, nodding dumbly for a moment before his own hand raised, shaking quickly, only vaguely aware of Emily’s surprise at his willingness to touch someone who was essentially a stranger.

“My arm’s hot.” He revealed, losing any conversational ability as his IQ slashes itself in half in your presence.

Blood rushed to your cheeks, dropping his hand in order to unbutton the cuff of your shirt sleeve, pulling it up to reveal your mark. He grinned, reading the  _ absolutely beautiful _ scrawled in his handwriting, and pulled up his own sleeve, showing off  _ oh, fuck me _ .

It had been the butt of several of Morgan’s jokes - that Pretty Boy was gonna get some - so Emily’s laughter was entirely expected as she excused herself, leaving you both standing beside your new desk - opposite his own - and ushering the team away, letting you meet each other properly before you would be introduced to the rest of them.

And as Spencer stared at you, spoke to you, tried to find out everything there was to know about you, he couldn’t help but look back on his younger self. He was still gangly, sure. He’d always be awkward. But neither of you were settling for the other, you weren’t stuck with him or he with you… You were a pair, you matched.  _ Perfectly _ .

Maybe change wasn’t so bad after all.


	8. Garcia/Reader, you can’t see colours until you meet your soulmate.

People who didn’t know Penelope Garcia very well would usually assume she’d never met her soulmate. She dressed in wild colours, often with clashing shades competing against each other, day after day. What those people failed to notice, was that each outfit was perfectly styled - whilst she might wear bright orange and lime green (which had once caused Spencer to get a headache), the exact shade of orange was matched throughout the outfit - her cardigan, belt, and shoes all the same, and her green dress matched her glasses exactly.

That was a feat that those who saw in black and white could rarely manage.

Most people, until they had that moment, when the world flooded with every unseen colour in a matter of seconds and their eyes met those of The One, would stick to neutral tones - Emily and Derek, for instance - it was rare that she would be seen in anything other than black (or at least, anything with more than one splash of colour), and even more rare for him to show up in anything that wasn’t some variant of grey or blue. Others, like Spencer, didn’t really care what colours they wore - the shades of grey they could see matched well enough, and if anyone who could see was offended by his brown jacket, red cardigan, blue shirt, and purple tie, then they would usually just turn away and ignore him - something he had grown used to throughout his childhood.

Garcia had originally been like Spencer, just wearing whatever she felt like with no care for how she looked. You were more like the rest of the team - dark colours, black, brown, blue, just whatever the most neutral plain tones available were when you went shopping. People knew instantly when you’d found Penelope - you started wearing a bit more colour - not much, but after years and years of neutrals, suddenly showing up in a bright red shirt clued your colleagues in pretty quickly. If people noticed that her outfits started to make a little bit more sense after you’d transferred from White Collar to the BAU, nobody commented - the Bureau had strict policies about no soulmates on the same team, and even when the group of profilers spotted the awe on yours and Penelope’s faces when you were introduced to each other, they’d never mention it within the walls of the building. Strauss would, undoubtedly, skin you all alive if she ever found out that your close friendship was anything more, though Garcia’s attitude towards her Chocolate Thunder definitely helped throw her off the scent.

If you were the first person through the doors to the bullpen, the first person swept into a hug, and the only person to get a relieved kiss on the cheek after every case, nobody mentioned it. If Rossi had barged into her apartment shortly after rejoining the team and found you wrapped in a bright purple towel (with white spots) still dripping from a shared shower, he never spoke of it. If nights out after cases ended up with you and Penelope curled up beside each other at whatever table you’d overtaken for the night, lips locked together, the rest of your team was suddenly blind or too drunk to recall. If you suddenly sported some more… unusual accessories, you were simply ‘trying something new’.

And if, one weekend several years after your first meeting, the team had gathered in Rossi’s backyard, surrounded by multicoloured flowers, each profiler dressed in a different colour, Carlos Garcia clutching his sisters arm as she walked between two sets of chairs towards you, Reid reading from a little book as he stood between you, family on either side… the two of you wearing thin silver bands each day afterward…?

Nobody said a word.

Your colourful soulmate was yours, and you were hers. It was a love you shared with each other and your closest friends - your family - and nothing would come between you.


	9. Matt/Reader, you share emotions with your soulmate.

You’d met Matt several years before - as Spencer informed you this morning, exactly four years to the day. You’d been hired as an intern for the BAU, felt extremely nervous… until a wave of reassurance had washed over you. The excitement overtook as you were introduced to the team, and the calm from your soulmate had allowed you to uphold that ever-so-important professional image - at least until Penelope Garcia introduced herself and proved that she was even more excited about a new team member (especially one who would remain with her in Quantico rather than jetting off cross-country).

It took about a month for you to realise that Matt was your soulmate. The sudden icy shock and fear that crashed over you moments before the call from JJ through the comms that Matt had taken a bullet. The continued presence of fear in your chest - not just your own - reassured you the whole journey to the hospital, ever so thankful that it was a local case and you were only twenty minutes from him instead of twenty states. It wasn’t a bad injury, for a gunshot at least. Clean through, upper arm. Matt was on desk duty for another month, during which you explained to him that you thought he was Yours.

You’d never looked back, diving headfirst into a relationship (though not letting on to Linda  _ fucking _ Barnes that you were bonded. God knows she’d fire one of you and/or send the other to California just out of spite). As time went on, you grew into a more capable profiler - though you still weren’t a field agent by any means - all thanks to Matt’s emotions leaking through the link. You learnt to read  _ him _ , put the emotions you felt to the microexpressions he gave, applied them to the expressions on others, were able to tell easily when Emily was too stressed, Spencer was too tired, Luke was dealing with some muscle strain… Reading the team was almost as easy as reading your soulmate, and the love you felt through your bond whenever you would give them a subtle helping hand never failed to fill you with warmth.

You always felt loved now. There was no part of you that Matt didn’t express at least a smidgen of affection towards, everything you did to/for/with him was met with a stuttering heartbeat and heated cheeks. Everything he did in return was met with the same. You’d never doubted that Matt loved you more than anything in the world.

Until today.

Nervousness was pouring through your bond, guilt and fear and apprehension.

You wanted to send reassurance back to him, but confusion and worry prevailed, and you both spent the morning with stomach pain, only heightened by his avoidance of you.

“Tara?” You shuffled over to her desk, eyeing the briefing room that housed Matt, Spencer, Penelope, and Luke.

“Yeah?” She turned to you, then frowned, “You okay?”

“I don’t know.” You glanced again, “Has Matt… Has he said anything? About… anything?”

“No.” She shakes her head, “But don’t worry. It’s probably just whatever consult he’s working on right now.”

“Right.” You nod once and head back to your desk, her words not helping to ease your concern.

~~~

At the end of the work day, Matt rushed out of the bullpen - still with Spencer, Penelope, and Luke - without so much as a glance in your direction. The nervousness peaked, anticipation bubbling just under the surface.

It took Dave offering a strong drink to knock you out of staring in shock at the closed elevator doors, the other agents agreeing with the need for a wind down after such a dull day of paperwork.

Once the group of you reached Rossi’s, Tara held you back for a moment, offering a grin:

“Don’t be worried.” She insisted, setting her hands on your shoulders to guide you through the mansion straight to the back yard.

Matt’s nerves made so much sense all of a sudden.

The worry about your reaction, the guilt at hiding something from you, the fear of rejection…

There he was, in a suit, smiling more shyly than you’d ever seen him, down on one knee.

He knew your answer before he even started asking, feeling your happiness washing through your link…

“Marry me?” He asks

“Don’t ever make me feel that nervous again.” You laugh, pulling him to his feet and kissing him soundly.

“Is that a yes?” Penelope calls, distracting you from the joy bubbling inside.

“ _ Hell yes _ .”


	10. Tara/Reader, you look in the mirror and see their reflection.

When you first heard of soulmates you were still a child. Oblivious to most of the world but somewhat aware of its mysteries. After one too many times of seeing someone out the corner of your eye and turning to find them not there, you’d asked your nearest responsible adult what was going on.

Soulmates could be seen by their other half only in mirrors - and not deliberately. You know all those times where you think you see something in your reflection and then there’s nothing there? That’s your soulmate. If you seek them out in your reflection, you only see yourself, but those absentminded times you walk past a window in the street, see yourself in the shiny metal of a car passing by… you catch a glimpse of someone else on the surface.

You can’t see your soulmate’s reflection in place of your own until you’ve met them. Then, until your bond is solidified, you can’t see yourself at all. It makes for some funky hairstyles in those newly-met but not-quite-bonded couples… You can’t wait to see them deliberately - to have the knowledge that you’ve met them, that they really do exist and they’re gonna find you and support you no matter what for the rest of your days...

That’s why now, sitting in this room where almost one entire wall is a mirror, you’re trying your damnedest not to look at your reflection. You need to see your soulmate, get some support from them in this trying time, just seeing them from the corner of your eye would be enough… But you’re looking deliberately, so all you see is yourself. Your  _ wrongly accused _ self…

If someone told you yesterday that you’d spend three hours alone in an interrogation room in the middle of Quantico, held on murder charges after literally being in the wrong place at the wrong time… you’d say it was some stupid prank. With that thought, you call out to the people you know are behind the mirror,

“Am I on Punk’d or something?” Your voice is hoarse, “Can I get some water at least?”

Another five minutes pass before anyone talks to you. They’re both tall. Exceedingly so.

“Y/N, I’m Agent Lewis, this is Agent Simmons.” The woman introduces, taking a seat across the table from you, “we’re sorry this took so long.”

You smile uncomfortably, “Can you please explain why I’m here?”

“Where were you Tuesday night?”

“I… I was buying cat food? Then I spent the evening alone? I… The only witness is my cat and you can’t ask him, but please, whatever you think I did I… I didn’t do!”

“You lost your job recently, correct?” Simmons asks.

“Well, yeah, but… So did half the team. Why? I-Is someone dead? Do you think I killed someone?”

“We’re not sure yet.” Lewis admits. “Is there anyone who was let go that might have it in for your manager?”

“D-Delia?” You shake your head, “N-no, she… She was the best thing about that place, she almost got fired trying to stop us from losing our jobs. Is she okay?”

“She was killed.”

“Oh my god…” You shut your eyes at the news, “Oh fuck, oh shit, are you serious? Please, tell me I’m on Punk’d.”

“You’re not.” Simmons shares a glance with his partner, “We’re sorry, Y/N. Excuse us for a moment.”

You nod blindly, trying your best to cope with the news.

When you open your eyes, you move from the seat to stand in front of the mirror, knowing in your heart that your soulmate still won’t appear before you, but wishing beyond everything that they could somehow sense your distress and fate could offer its support.

You sigh heavily, and blink hard, convinced that - if this isn’t an elaborate prank - then you must be dreaming.

Alas not.

But - there - where your reflection should be…

“I didn’t know you guys could turn off the reflection.” You frown. Agent Lewis is there, visible in front of you. You raise a hand to wipe a tear from your face and gasp. She’s raised her own hand to do the same. “Maybe you can’t…”


	11. Derek/Reader, you have a timer counting down until you meet your soulmate.

As you sat there, gun pressed to the back of your head, your eyes stayed fixed on your wrist. The clock you’d had since birth had always been a comfort, but as the seconds ticked by, you couldn’t help but wish it would speed up.  
He was almost here.  
00:04:56... 55... 54…  
~~~  
Morgan had never been more thankful that soulmate clocks were only visible to the couple they belonged to. He was sure, if Hotch knew that their latest victim was potentially his soulmate, he’d make him sit out on the rescue, even if it would delay his clock for longer than fate intended.  
As it stands, the SUV isn’t going fast enough, the plan to get to them in time isn’t well-thought-out enough, but his heart is beating all-too-fast to make up for the slowness of everything else. He’s trying not to stare at his forearm, trying not to count the seconds until you meet, but he can’t help it…  
00:02:31… 30… 29  
~~~  
Your breath leaves you in a relieved gasp as the door to wherever you are bursts open above you - you’re pretty sure you’re in a basement, but the lighting is so awful that you really have no idea. The lightbulb flickers above you, the gun moves from your head and this asshole who grabbed you off the street pulls you upwards, arm around your neck and gun pressed under your chin as he uses you as a human shield.  
You’re calmer than you thought you would be, the knowledge that your soulmate is here to get you out of this mess and will appear so incredibly soon helping to stay your panic...  
You can’t lie and say you’d not rather it be under totally different circumstances, that you’d even go for that cliche accidentally spilled coffee on you and ruined your shirt story that nobody really knows the origins of… But this meeting is certainly one to tell the grandkids about, if you get that far…  
Oh, you know you’ll meet them. There’s no doubt of that… But there’s also so many tales of one half of a pair meeting a sticky end shortly after their timer stops, and the way it looks right now? You’re hoping more than anything that you’re not gonna be one of those ill-fated couples destined for nothing but heartbreak.  
You smile to yourself as the timer ticks down… 00:00:05… 00:00:04… three… two…  
The door breaks open, a well placed kick aimed by a strong determined leg, and your eyes trail up the man’s body to lock eyes with your soulmate for the first time. His eyes are kind, reassuring, but as they scan your body and zone in on the gun at your neck, you see the worry take over. You don’t dare look away from him, deaf to the shouts of ‘drop your weapon’ from his team, the three - no, four - other FBI agents all aiming around you to reach the psycho holding you against him.  
Everything happens in a blur. As you stare at your soulmate and draw confidence from him, use his presence to assure yourself that this is almost over, you lose track of everything around you. There’s a shout, then you’re pushed forward, knees and palms scraping on the ground. You think there might be a gunshot, but then his hands are helping you to your feet, pulling you into his Kevlar-covered chest, out of your makeshift prison and into the light.  
“Thank you.” You clutch at him. “I… Thank you.”  
“It’s okay, Y/N.” He mumbles back, leading you to a medic, “You’re gonna be just fine.”  
He turns to go, wanting desperately to pummel your kidnapper into the concrete. You reach for his wrist, tracing over the now-permanent marker of the date and time your eyes met. “Stay with me?”  
He smiles at you, nods easily. “Alright. I’m Derek, by the way.”  
“It’s fantastic to meet you.” You whisper, smiling back, meeting his eyes once more.


	12. Spencer/Reader, you swap important items on your 25th birthdays.

You’d always loved chess. Your father had taught you how to play when you were six years old, and you’d been playing ever since, at least one match every day. Your favourite piece was always the rook, something about the castle-shape appealing to your childhood obsession with fairytales - you supposed the knight would fit into that more, but really, you much preferred tales of dragons guarding castles and hoarding gold than the typical damsel in distress or knight in shining armour stories that others your age seemed obsessed with.

As you went to sleep on the eve of your 25th birthday, you were pretty sure that whoever your soulmate was would end up with one of your rooks in their possession, but nobody could ever be 100% certain until their items were swapped.

A year or so ago, you’d woken to discover a well-worn and annotated copy of Ray Bradbury’s  _ The Illustrated Man, _ the edition dating back to the year whoever they were was born. You’d lost your favourite stuffed animal - a worthy creature for such an important exchange of gifts.

Yes, a chess piece hardly compared to an old book, but the set had belonged to your father when he was a boy, so it was important to you. An heirloom and a link back to the man who had taught you the wonders of the game.

~~~

Waking up the next morning, you looked to the bedside table, wanting to find whatever item they had swapped with you, but there was nothing there… It’s not like you’d forgotten the day of your birthday, so where was it? This new insight into them?

It wasn’t until you’d got up, dressed, had breakfast, and sat down to see if you  _ had _ lost your rook that you realised.

Your set was different. There were three white rooks, and only one black one.

That meant that whoever they were also found chess - and the castle-piece in particular - important.

And was it wishful thinking that they too would end up in the local park, at the chess tables, hoping to bump into you?

~~~

“Are you waiting for someone? Or can I play you?”

It’s a man’s voice, he seems nervous, but you look up at him from your position on the bench, mismatched chess set laid out before you. He’s cute, nerdy but in a good way, his purple scarf standing out against the brown of his coat.

“I am waiting.” You smile shyly, “There’s only one person who can play me.” You shrug, hand on your bag - that well worn novel burning a hole in the fabric  _ just in case _ .

He frowns a little, then looks over your chess set curiously. His eyes widen in surprise, “Happy Birthday, Y/N.”

You stare up at him, “How do you know my name?”

He sits, pulls out a battered looking stuffed dragon and a black rook. “You wrote your name on Smaug’s label.”

You can’t help but laugh, holding back happy-tears as you pull out the book, his name written on the inside cover in what you assume is his mother’s handwriting. “It’s nice to meet you, Spencer.”

You spend the rest of the day getting to know each other over several games of chess, at part ways with a complete chess set, your beloved dragon, and a phone number scrawled on your arm.


	13. Hotch/Reader, you don’t age after 21 until you meet your soulmate.

He’d had many names through the years. A soldier, centurion, general, lawyer, doctor, and the latest: agent. Aelius slowly became Aaric, became Alexander, became Aaron. He moved from city to city, avoiding the pain that came from an unbonded soul - after a century in one place, forced to move on lest the pain of losing so many generations of friends gets too much.

Fate is cruel, he’s learnt. He’s heard so many tales of the tugging feeling each pair gets in their chest before they meet, before that second of forever - when eyes meet for the first time and the pain disappears in a flash, the feeling of relief and safety emanating from Your Person…

He’s felt it before. Countless times. The tightness in his chest disappearing, not from meeting you, but from your bond being snapped - some cruel trick where fate stops your life in its tracks just moments before you find happiness… Leaving him more and more miserable each time.

When he was a soldier - the first time - when you died in battle just feet away from him, your backs to each other throughout the fight… The lawyer who saw your face displayed in a case file, forced to defend your killer… The doctor… The doctor who prepared to take you straight into surgery but never got the chance because your body gave out in the ambulance just moments before it pulled up outside… Always the same face… It’s one he looks out for every day, hopes you might bypass the tugging chests and subvert fate to bump into each other unexpectedly…

He needs to stop choosing professions where he meets people in danger. Should just take up floristry and sell flowers to those happily bonded… Or live in a cave somewhere remote until you happen to stumble upon him in centuries time.

But he couldn’t bear that… just… existing. He needs to help people.

There are stories of him, dating back years… The miserable lonely man who avoids others as much as possible, exists in a lonely immortal world, but does his best to assist those in need.

Some stories have been warped over the centuries, a conversation with an irishman some time past sparking a new darker version of his tale - the man with an aversion to garlic and sunlight with sharp teeth and a taste for blood - it certainly made it easier to hide his origins.

He’s lived through so much and lost so much that after all this time… he’s not sure what he’ll do when he finally meets you.

He joined the FBI eighty years after he’d helped found it, forming a profiling unit with a man he was already dreading the loss of, and a skinny kid who looked 21 and was only 22 but still held more knowledge than almost everyone else he’d ever met… Worked with the two of them for a decade or so, when the “older” man retired to write novels and their team altered a little... When Garcia met Morgan and both of them started showing signs of smile-lines and crow's-feet and Aaron remained the youthful superior once more, Spencer the only constant in their careers.

When Jennifer brings a case to him one day, her thirty-year old face hiding the fifty year old experience. When he starts to feel that tugging in his chest again, and flicks open the file to find a sea of faces with your hair colour, all still youthful in body but not so much in mind. He wonders how long you’ve been waiting this time… It’s been forty years since you last missed each other - a freak accident nobody could have prevented - so you should be about that age now… Blissfully unaware of his too-long life. He can’t lose you another time, and decides whoever this unsub might be, whatever they think they’re doing with people who look like you… he’s going to make sure you’re safe. Even if he has to go out in your place, let you live with the loss of him until he comes back around with no knowledge of all his years past… Better yet, he’ll save you without either of you breaking the bond, and you’ll both finally get to  _ lock eyes across a crowded room _ , feel that release of tension, grow old together…

He might finally be able to grow a beard, be taken seriously for having those lines in his face and greys in his hair… even after all this time the idea of ‘age doesn’t equal experience’ still hasn’t really set in. His head is full of knowledge, of languages and books that nobody else knows, stories that nobody else will hear… and the pressure of time running out might finally prompt him to remind the world of those long lost tales that live in the far corners of his mind.

All he wants is to have you, to hold you, to love you for who you are in this life and not for the imagined persons you’ve been to him before… He’s only had one life - but you’ve had hundreds, and you might not remember them, but this one is all he needs.

When he’s reminded a few hours later - Spencer sending him a long-suffering smile and Dave joking “i might look old but you’re the one with the head like a sieve” - that there’s a new agent joining the team, filling the gap of Prentiss’ newly-bonded-and-wanting-to-live-safe absence, his chest tightens even more.

He goes through the briefing not hearing a word, blood pounding in his ears, jaw on the table, staring across the semi-crowded room at the face he’s seen only in his dreams, your own eyes locked on his, smiling in vague recognition as your bond sings at finally being completed. He grins, and his eyes crinkle, the lines of future wrinkles already setting in.


End file.
